


we're on the road to messy

by cherryvanilla



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, First Meetings, First Time, Galaxy Garrison, M/M, Pining, Pre-Canon, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Romance, Training, season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7891618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/pseuds/cherryvanilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>LATER</b>, after Shiro’s found his way back to Keith yet unsure of how to move forward, he’ll be told how Keith spent countless hours holed up in Shiro’s old quarters that he’d picked the lock to get into, poring over blueprints and notes and digital images, unwilling to accept or admit defeat. </p><p><b>NOW</b>, Shiro hasn’t even found his way there yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're on the road to messy

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Lisa for reading this when I was unsure, and being the best cheerleader. To Clev, who is a trooper and my fav. To Clare, for being awesome. And to Katarin, who pointed out Keith's eyes in [this photo](http://vignette1.wikia.nocookie.net/voltron/images/3/34/34._Masked_Keith.png/revision/latest?cb=20160720040159), (thereby inspiring so many things within this fic), named Shiro's parents and flails with me on twitter. 
> 
> Title by Belly.

"That one’s gonna fly right off the rails one day," says Matt, voice considering. Shiro doesn't startle because he never startles, but it's a near thing. He hadn't heard Matt come up next to him. He's trained _with_ Matt for that very thing - sneak attacks, instinctual nature, knowing where your opponent is ten paces ahead of them. He's not sure what that says about him, that he was instead so focused on what was happening in the simulator on the other side of the one-way glass. 

"Come and watch him," McKinley, his commanding officer, had said. "We're thinking of expanding your caseload." Then he'd dropped a file in Shiro's lap and left him to some light reading. 

_Keith Kogane, age 18, orphaned, passed around through foster care. Trouble with authority figures. Background in Martial Arts. Quick instincts. Recruited by Galaxy Garrison after an incident in Juvenile Hall. In need of guidance._

"Good a reason as any to be here then," Shiro says lightly, a delayed response to Matt. The profile couldn't have prepared him for watching Kogane in a flight simulator looking like a caged animal, his teeth gritted in determination, his face portraying barely contained anger when things started to go out of control. Shiro recognized something in those eyes. A passion, perhaps misguided right now, but there all the same. 

_This kid could be special_ , he’d thought, had been in the _middle_ of thinking when Matt had showed up.

"Yeah?" comes Matt’s reply, eyebrow raised. “You think he’ll last?” 

Shiro drags his gaze away from where this teenager with dark, messy hair and an unblinking expression is trying his hardest to gain control of the tailspin his ship is heading into, yet losing his cool despite his efforts. _Fighter Pilot potential_ , the file had said. _With the proper attention._

"I think he's got a fighting chance," Shiro says, straight faced even through the obvious pun and the silent decision he's made.

He'll tell McKinley to pencil Kogane in for one on one combat sessions starting next week. 

He hopes he isn't making a mistake.  
__________________

 **LATER** , after Shiro’s found his way back to Keith yet unsure of how to move forward, he’ll be told how Keith spent countless hours holed up in Shiro’s old quarters that he’d picked the lock to get into, poring over blueprints and notes and digital images, unwilling to accept or admit defeat.  


**NOW** , Shiro hasn’t even found his way there yet. 

Now, he takes in the kid who’s shown up for their session without even standing to attention. Who is, in fact, leaning against the classroom wall like something out of a high school TV drama, the lockers the only thing missing. 

He's got an eyebrow cocked when Shiro comes to stand before him. “You're a minute late.”

Impossible. “I'm right on time.”

“Maybe you should get a new watch,” Kogane hums. 

Now it's Shiro’s turn to fold his arms. “Maybe you should show some respect.”

“...Sir,” Kogane adds, after a deliberate pause. 

“At ease, Cadet,” Shiro says, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. 

He swears he sees Kogane’s mouth twitch. It shouldn't feel like a victory. 

“You can call me Shiro. I'm not really one for formalities, or my full surname.”

He watches as Kogane’s eyes widen ever so slightly before quickly schooling his expression.

The words are the truth, but one Shiro probably shouldn't have extended. Kogane’s got authority issues and God knows what else going on and he should probably be trying to correct those, not put him at ease. He knows he was called in here as a “bad cop”, to straighten out the hot-headed cadet, make him Galaxy Garrison material. Shiro’s got the singular focus and no-nonsense attitude to pull exactly just that off.

Except he can already tell Kogane has an odd fragility beneath his sharp exterior, and Shiro doesn't want to see it break. 

“Keith,” comes the simple, sure reply, like an olive branch. Shiro makes a decision, extending his own in the form of an outstretched hand, already fully aware he’ll use the given name. Shiro’s also aware that he's been more familiar in these last five minutes with Keith than he has with anyone he's outranked since his commencement at the Garrison. 

“So let's get started,” is what he says, ignoring his own shiver as their bare palms touch. 

“You'll need some gloves,” Shiro says over his shoulder as he starts across the room, mostly to himself. 

This time Keith’s mouth definitely twitches and the sly curve of his mouth is something Shiro could've done without.  
_____________________

 **LATER** , he’ll find out how Keith couldn't let it go, couldn't push forward without Shiro as his center. How he couldn’t focus on the things Shiro used to say to ground him because all anyone talked about was “pilot error” and it was the most unfathomable thing Keith’s ever heard. That the first five months of the mission, in which they were able to talk via video feed once a week while Keith complained it wasn’t enough, ended up feeling like no time at all compared to the year after that in which he thought he’d never get him back. 

That he couldn’t walk around the halls of the Garrison without the hope they’d run into each other, without the thrill that maybe Shiro would feel daring down an empty corridor and push Keith into a wall, press into him like he was trying to puzzle their bodies back together. 

(It had been known to happen, in moments of weakness, when rules and regulations didn't feel as good as the soft skin of Keith’s lips.)

He’ll be told Keith got kicked out because people didn't care enough to look for Shiro and broke back in because he’d never stopped hoping. The words will be tightly coiled and smaller than Shiro’s ever heard out of Keith’s mouth. It’ll make him feel regret and guilt, for being the cause of Keith’s tailspin. For being counterproductive and letting this in, inviting it. 

**NOW** , he dodges blows from this lithe kid who has a strength and determination that rivals most Commanders. 

(They’d started on the punching bag until Keith had huffed, pushed his hair back and said, “Come on, give me a real challenge.”)

He doesn’t pin Shiro on his first try, but it’s a near thing. Keith gets annoyed, sloppy, uncoordinated. 

“Patience yields focus,” Shiro tells him. 

“That’s corny as hell,” Keith responds, except a moment later there’s a change in him. A minute after that, he’s got Shiro flat on his back. 

Shiro’s started cataloging little things about Keith. Like how when he’s angry his eyes narrow, the grey filling with flecks of purple that consume his pupil and become one of the most hypnotizing things Shiro’s ever seen. How he refuses to button the top collar of his uniform, like it’s one of his remaining ways to screw with authority.

How his hands feel when they make contact with Shiro’s, the skid of his gloves against his own covered knuckles. 

They spar until Keith’s panting and breathless and has nothing left in him but a small satisfied smile and purple irises that no longer appear angry. 

Until Shiro looks in his eyes and sees something like contentment, belonging. 

“Let’s get you back in a combat simulator,” Shiro says after two weeks, clapping a hand on Keith’s shoulder and letting a smile dance at the edges of his mouth. 

Keith looks down at his hand and then slowly back up through his eyelashes. Shiro removes it, a burning in his throat, seeing something else in Keith’s eyes now that’s far more intimidating than any anger directed his way. 

“Let’s move, Cadet,” Shiro says firmly, turning on his heel, fully aware Keith will see through that show of authority for exactly the deflection it is.

Shiro doesn't care; transparency is better than losing his head over something that would be a colossal disaster.  
_____________________

 **LATER** , he’ll hear more about Keith living out in the desert with only the stars for company. Fingertips will trail over the cool metal that has jarringly replaced flesh as Keith relays how he’d listen to the mix Shiro gave him prior to leaving until all the songs blurred into one in his head. How being alone again suddenly didn't feel okay like it used to, but it was better than not being around the one person that mattered. 

He’ll get tripped up on not being able to feel Keith’s fingers and it’ll be hard to remember Keith is right there, breath hot on his skin and voice quiet in his ear. He'll wake up in the middle of the night, shaking and sweating, skirting away when Keith tries to pull him closer without meaning to. He’ll flinch when those same fingers trace over one of the many scars that now line his back, still unable to recall how each and every one got there. 

He’ll think about the fact that he missed Keith’s birthday and even his own, and that at a quarter of a century old, now, he feels so much more so. He’ll think that Keith looks haunted beyond his own 19 years when Shiro huddles between the space of the wall and his bed and tells him he needs a minute to breathe. 

**NOW** , he re-reads his Junior Officer Operating Manual while bent over the desk in his single quarters, eyes caught on one passage in particular:

_Section 2.52_

_ Interpersonal Relationships _

_Personal relationships romantic or sexual in nature are strongly dissuaded between JO’s and Cadets, whilst not strictly prohibited and providing the former is at least 16 years of age as per the state of Nevada. Discretion is duly advised, due to issues of favoritism and resentment that can arise, as well as full written disclosure to your Commanding Officer._

The notion of disclosing his personal life to anyone, let alone a superior, is so unappealing that Shiro slams the book shut and pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a frustrated sigh. 

“Sexual frustration,” Matt had said once, when they went off base to a seedy bar in the middle of the desert with cheap beer and terrible karaoke. “Happens to the best of us.”

Shiro had rolled his eyes, all the while mentally cataloging the last time he’d been with someone. He'd left a boyfriend behind in Florida when he’d come here at age 20 to join Galaxy Garrison, because they were going nowhere and Shiro had needed a direction that wasn't standing still. Had needed to prove to his father that he could be a leader, because apparently two tours in the Army hadn’t been enough. 

At the Garrison he was too focused on excelling and giving it his all, making this the thing he was best at in life, to notice if any glances were shot his way. He couldn’t escape the whispers from other cadets as he’d walk down the hall, though: guys in awe of his skill set and demonstrated leadership capabilities and calmness under pressure, girls loving the way he wore his hair long in the front and buzzed in the back. 

Matt’s eyes had caught on a redhead at the bar and Shiro’d let himself look around. He’d ended up getting a blow job from a locally stationed Marine, who’d slipped him his number as they were straightening their clothes. 

Shiro never called him. He thinks about it now, wonders if he still has the crumpled piece of paper shoved in a drawer somewhere. If the guy was long gone by now. 

He's still thinking about it when his hand finds his way to his cock, teasing through the fabric of his uniform before snaking inside. Except the picture behind his eyes morphs somewhere in the middle from dirty blonde hair beneath his fingertips to a soft, jet black. He comes on a shaky, gasped breath, a fire consuming him that isn't smothered by his orgasm or the five-letter word he tries to keep off his lips. 

There's a knock on his door before Shiro’s barely had the chance to throw away the tissues and button up his pants. 

Keith’s standing there. Well, leaning. Always with the leaning, like he belongs on a street corner, torn between casual disinterest and looking for a way to survive. Shiro can’t help but wonder if one more wrong turn could have led to that. Keith’s a survivor, probably one of the toughest people Shiro’s ever met, but it still makes him shudder, thinking of all the possible roads he could have gone down if the Garrison recruiters hadn’t offered him an alternative to staying in juvie all because he couldn’t stop getting into street fights or manage to go to his classes. 

“You’re late again,” Keith says, and he doesn’t even try to hide the sass in his voice. It’s become their “thing”, much to Shiro’s chagrin – Keith loving to find any example, even if it isn’t accurate, that Shiro isn’t punctual. 

“Oh yeah? Since when do you get to the dining hall on time, kid?” Shiro replies, hoping any lingering tremors in his voice have dissipated. 

That’s become their “thing”, too. Well, Shiro’s thing. Distance. Deflection. Keith’s eyes narrow at the use of ‘kid’, the way they always do. The look on his face says, ‘I know exactly what you’re doing.’ It says, ‘I’m not going to let you keep getting away with it.’ 

“Not a goddamn kid,” is what he actually says, and, well. That’s new, but to be honest, long overdue. “And since I’m hungry, that’s when. C’mon.” 

Shiro wants to ruffle his hair, but he honestly doesn’t trust his hand not to shake. 

It’s become expected now, the two of them walking in together, sharing a table with a few other JO’s, Matt, and Dr. Holt. McKinley hasn’t said anything to Shiro about it, so he assumes he likes that Keith is making friendly with people who outrank him. Shiro personally thinks he needs more connections to his fellow cadets, but when he’s tried to get Keith to talk about it all he says is Lance is “fucking annoying” and Hunk is “too happy, it makes me sick.” 

Selfishly, Shiro doesn’t push it as much as he probably should, enjoys catching Keith’s eyes across the table as Dr. Holt rambles on about one of his recent expeditions, likes watching the way they’ll light up with excitement them sometimes, the palpable want of space shining through the normal facade of indifference. 

Perhaps tonight his eyes catch too long, look too hard, because Matt pokes him in the ribs at one point and panic swirls in Shiro’s stomach when he levels Shiro with a pointed look. He glances back at Keith, only to find him utterly engulfed with pushing his broccoli around his plate. 

Cheeks flaming, Shiro stands and excuses himself, having finished eating a moment ago but normally one to hang around and engage in some conversation. He’s pretty sure he feels Keith’s eyes on him as he leaves. 

It’s predictable, but he goes to the gym. He does 150 push-ups and gets in a few hits to the bag before Keith shows up. Shiro can’t say he’s surprised. 

“Stop lurking,” he sighs, holding the bag still and pressing his forehead to the leather, eyes closing. 

“M’not. Stop hiding.” 

Keith says the word like an order and Shiro stiffens before straightening, shoulders squaring as he turns to face him. “You’re out of line, Cadet.” 

Keith doesn’t stand to attention. Why would he? He folds his arms over his chest in his patented stance and lifts his chin higher. “Yeah? So do something about it, Shiro.” 

It’s barely a challenge and more of a plea. It breaks something inside of him. 

He takes a step forward, shaking his head to himself. “I _should_ make you do a hundred deadlifts.” 

Keith takes a step in to meet him. “Is that what you want?” 

The words aren’t cocky. They’re – wondering. Genuine. 

Shiro’s movements falter. His eyes cut to the floor and he shakes his head again before meeting Keith’s gaze head on. “What I want isn't important.”

“Bullshit,” Keith says, voice fierce. He takes another step. “Bullshit, Shiro.”

He refuses to take a step back, even when Keith comes toe to toe with him. Even when he looks up with those damn eyes, a fringe of bang falling across his brow. 

“We want the same things,” Keith continues and it's the confidence, the certainty there that makes Shiro bristle.

“So you're an expert in what I want, now? Think you've got it all figured out? You don't know me, Keith.” His eyes flash, the words sharp on his tongue, a mantra of _break him, push him away_ running through his head. 

Keith doesn't even flinch. “Yeah. I do. And so do you.”

 _Impossible_ , Shiro thinks but the word sticks in his mouth. Three months. Three months of training and test runs and late night talks in the star bay, looking up the vast expanse of space. 

It shouldn't be enough to know someone. But once he started learning the gaps between the pages in Keith’s file, he knew it was. Once he started filling in his own, he was already lost. 

“We – I –” Shiro tries again, eyes pleading. He should have turned this down at the start, he should turn it down now. But years of doing what's best for his classmates, his crew, his education, his father, his _career_ , and God damn it he wants do something for himself. 

Of course Keith makes the first move, of course he’d outdo Shiro’s bravery in this instance. He raises his hand. He's got the fingerless gloves on. He takes to wearing them all the time, now. When Keith makes contact with his cheek, Shiro’s heart stops and restarts. 

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, and if he intended to say anything else it doesn't happen as he tugs him down. Shiro goes willingly, defeat an uncommonly welcome feeling. 

It starts slow, which feels uncharacteristic. Keith isn't slow. He's the fastest person Shiro knows. But in this, there's no rush. A repeated brush of closed lips, a nip at the corner of his mouth, a gasping breath that pushes things further, until slow is forgotten in a tangle of tongues and a low cluster of moans. 

Shiro’s hands find their way to Keith’s face, framing his cheeks and kissing him harder, deeper. They slide down Keith’s jaw when they break part, his mouth following the curve of where his fingers just were. Keith’s hands are tight around his back, his breathing loud and unsteady in Shiro’s ear, his erection hard against his thigh.

“Have you done this before?” Shiro whispers, mouth sliding over his neck, pressing down to the space between that forever open button at his collar. 

He can hear the eyeroll in Keith’s reply. “Yes, Shiro. I'm not gonna break.”

The words uncomfortably echo his earlier thoughts. 

“Didn't think you would,” he says back, voice serious, burying his face in Keith’s neck and breathing in, silently adding _and you won't on my watch_.

“Shiro…” Keith says, and this time it's a plea wrapped up in impatience, a slow rocking of hips into his own. 

Shiro smiles, too fond, even as he shivers. “Relax,” he soothes, voice low, before kissing his way back to Keith’s mouth. “Patience yields focus, remember?” 

He swallows up Keith’s pained groan and laughs against his lips, feeling Keith’s answering smile. He slows the pace down again, at least for a little while. It isn't until Keith pushes him back and they stumble against the training bag, mouths hungry and hands roaming with intent now, that Shiro comes to his senses. 

“We have to –” he pulls away, licking his lips, watching as Keith’s eyes flare, almost deep purple now. The knowledge that it's not just anger that makes that happen makes something unfurl inside him.

Keith catches one of his hands. “Let’s – your, your room.”

Shiro bites down hard on his bottom lip, thinks about calling it a night, ending it with his second furious jerk off session of the day, except not using a fantasy this time. 

Keith’s looking up at him. His cheeks are flushed, his hair is damp, and his hand in Shiro’s own feels like a lightning bolt making its way through his body.

“Okay,” he says, voice rough. “Okay.”

When Keith smiles, it's like someone just gave him stardust in a jar.  
______________________

 **LATER** , it'll be finding the way they fit again. The way Shiro will be afraid to touch Keith too hard with his arm. The way he’ll forget and leave bruises on his back when Keith rides him, arching and whispering “don't worry, don't, still you.” It’ll be attempting not to flinch away when Keith tries to hold him close, and wanting want to crawl out of his own skin. It’ll be apologizing for waking him up three nights in a row with night terrors and suggesting maybe Keith should just sleep in his own room in the castle. It’ll be Keith telling him not to be stupid, that “no one is leaving again.”

It’ll be Shiro burying his face in Keith’s shoulder the next time he wakes up and letting him be there, feeling his arms wrap around him and letting the pads of his fingers tentatively trace every scar he has. It’ll be a reminder that this is real, that this is what matters, that Shiro’s had a lot taken from him but not this, not yet. 

**NOW** , it's finding the way they fit for the first time. It's the way Keith reaches for him, pulls him in with a strong arm and thigh wrapped around his waist. It’s the way Keith feels so small, yet so strong beneath him as Shiro covers his body, pressing him into his springbox mattress and listening to the way it groans beneath them as they start to move. It's making out to Shiro’s favorite songs and humming the melody of them into Keith’s skin when they come together, breathless and boneless. 

“God. Holy shit, Shiro,” Keith pants, eyes closed, chest heaving as Shiro drops down beside him and then shifts to find room in the small space of his bed. 

They end up half turned into one another, hands roaming, mouths seeking.

“Curfew soon,” Shiro whispers, kissing Keith everywhere he can reach. 

“Not yet,” Keith points out, just to be contrary. Always. 

“No,” Shiro says, “not yet.” His sigh is one of contentment.

They end up kissing at the door until Keith has to go or he’ll risk being written up if caught by an on duty night officer. 

“Tomorrow?” Keith asks, voice hopeful. Shiro wants to say of course, they’re training at 1500. But he knows what he means.

“Tomorrow,” he echoes, steals another kiss. 

Four weeks later he’s told he’s been selected for the Kerberos mission. It’s bragging rights, something his family could be proud of; his father Daichi -- a decorated veteran who would have rathered Shiro kept himself in combat on ground instead of chasing the stars -- his mother Yumi, a biochemical engineer, who was worried about him either way. 

Shiro put in for Kerberos forever ago, having gone on a number of space exploration missions before but never one as challenging, due to the distance and absolute need for a top pilot to lead it. Even his father couldn't begrudge Shiro’s flight scores.

He put in for it long before a month of knowing what Keith Kogane looked like spread out on the sheets of his bed and moaning from the feel of Shiro’s mouth, tight and wet around his cock. 

“Funding hadn't been completely secured before and now it is,” says McKinley. Preparation would begin and they’d leave in six weeks – him, Matt and Dr. Holt, who’s leading the mission as Commander. 

“It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, traveling the furthest from Earth than anyone had before,” McKinley reiterates during a meeting with the three of them. It’s exactly the type of thing Shiro’s here for. Yet through his excitement, there’s a heaviness in his chest. He isn’t stupid. He knows the distance to Kerberos from Earth. When all's said and done, he won’t be home again for at least a year. The irony of finally letting himself have something only to have to give it up just as fast is not lost. 

When he gets back to his room, Keith is sitting at his desk, idly sketching in his composition book. He closes it, but keeps his finger on the page. The frown lines on his face soften immediately when they look at one another and Shiro feels a tight pull in his chest. 

“Fairly sure I locked this door,” he says, raising an eyebrow half-heartedly. 

Keith scoffs. “Please, like that can keep me out.”

“What are you doing here, Keith?” Shiro asks, voice heavy as he peels out of the jacket to his uniform. 

Keith’s eyebrows knit together and Shiro realizes how it sounded. “You want me to go or something?” Keith asks tightly. 

Shiro shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose. He steps up behind him, presses a hand to the nape of Keith’s neck, squeezing, hoping he recognizes it as the silent apology it is. 

Keith presses back into the touch and Shiro can feel the moment his body uncoils. When Keith’s head drops back, coming into contact with Shiro’s stomach, his muscles bunch. 

“Whatcha got there?” Shiro asks, nodding to the notebook. 

“Nothing,” Keith replies, sounding every bit like someone who has secret. 

Shiro continues to rub at Keith’s neck in slow circles, not sure how to push the words out from his throat. 

“Come out to the star bay with me?” Shiro asks, practically a whisper and completely vulnerable. 

Keith’s looking up at him, head still tilted backward, cocked curiously to the side now. “Um, yeah. Sure, Shiro.” 

He hates making Keith sound that unsure. Like Shiro’s taking him out there to tell him it’s over or something, even though they’ve never defined what ‘it’ is. 

_It’s not over_ , he tells himself. 

Shiro heads out in just a white tank top, not wanting to deal with being in uniform tonight, needing some distance. Keith’s wearing his favorite red and white jacket. He puts it on whenever he can get away with not having to adhere to regulation. He’d won it in a fight when he was 16. 

“It’s, I dunno. Symbolic. Or something,” Keith had said a few weeks after they’d met. It was one of the first things he’d shared that Shiro didn’t have to learn from a file.

“I'm leaving in six weeks on the Kerberos mission,” Shiro says when they've been sitting in silence for exactly three minutes, close but not touching in case someone happens by. 

(It's been a month and he hasn't disclosed anything. Keith didn't care, he’d said. “I'm not one for fanfare, man. Let's just – whatever.”

Shiro wasn't used to “whatever”, but he was going with the flow for now. Or until now.)

It's been 34 seconds since he said the words and Keith hasn't spoken yet. 

At 43 he says, “So that's – that’s Pluto and that's at least four months to get there and then a few there and then another four back –” 

“A year, give or take,” Shiro says, cutting him off. “Assuming it all – you know.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, voice rough, staring out at the moon where it hangs low in the sky. “That's – I mean, that's great for you, man. That’s –”

“Don't,” Shiro says, looking at him sharply. 

When Keith finally turns to him his eyes are dark. “What?”

Shiro grits his teeth. “Don't do that. Not with me.”

Keith’s laughter is hollow. He pushes his hair behind his ear. “What, you wanna hear that I'd like to put my fist through that glass right now,” he says, head jerking toward the star bay, “just at the fucking thought of you leaving?”

“Yeah,” Shiro breathes. He's never encouraged Keith’s anger before, or his cursing, but he needs something palpable right now, something real. Not stock platitudes. 

Keith’s eyes flash. “Well congratulations, I do.” He stands, paces for a moment, before stopping to stare down at Shiro. “You come into my fucking life when I didn't ask for it and get me used to –” Keith’s mouth snaps shut. “No. You know what? I can't do this right now.”

He stalks off and Shiro sinks back against the wall, tilting his head back and exhaling hard. He thinks about how it was only last weekend that he took Keith up to the roof to look out at the desert. The star bay provided a great view, but there was something about being outside with the wide open expanse of both red rock earth and vast space out on the horizon. They shared Shiro’s earbuds and listened to one of his mixes, Keith complaining about the sappy love ballads and Shiro’s J-pop selections.

“You’ve got terrible taste, old man,” he’d teased, and Shiro knew three things in that moment: 1) Keith was lying his ass off 2) he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Keith sound happier or looser, and 3) he felt like he was hurling through space in zero gravity. 

Keith is probably taking his anger out on the bag, now, and it wouldn't be hard for Shiro to go there, force him to talk or maybe even offer up a sparring session, let Keith take it out on him instead. Let him get a good punch in, perhaps even crave it. 

Instead Shiro sits for a while longer, before heading back to his room. The notebook is still on the desk and there's a curvature in the spine where Keith had it bent open earlier. 

Shiro finds himself moving there before he can stop himself, flipping it open and then freezing. It's a sketch of himself. 

“You weren't supposed to see that,” comes a voice at his still-open door. 

Shiro looks over his shoulder. Keith’s shed his jacket, his black tank covered in a thin sheen of sweat. 

“I don't look like that,” he says, turning his eyes toward the page again. He’s sleeping. Unguarded. Not responsible for anything or anyone. 

“Yeah, you do. It's what you let me see.”

Shiro turns back to him, stomach swooping. Keith’s hands are clenched at his sides. He's not wearing the gloves. There are bruises on his knuckles. 

“Are you okay?”

Keith nods. He closes the door behind him. “I’m –” he starts, takes a step, stops. “I, uh. I'm sorry.” 

Shiro doesn't school his surprise. Those words don't come easy for Keith. 

“I asked for you to be honest.” 

Keith nods again, drags a hand through his hair. “Yeah, but I shouldn't have run off, man. I don't – I'm not mad at _you_ , I'm mad at –”

“The situation,” Shiro finishes. “I know, alright? I never expected to feel anything other than excitement at this news, trust me.”

“Oh,” Keith says, quietly, surprised. 

Shiro’s eyes widen. He steps in close to Keith, forces his gaze up. “You thought I'd just be happy?”

If anyone was going to question the extent of feelings, Shiro figured it would have been himself. Keith loved keeping himself locked away, letting Shiro physically in but still holding him at bay in many other ways, as if he’d been anticipating Shiro’s being sent away.

“I dunno,” Keith admits, shrugging, looking entirely too young in that moment. Shiro’s heart lurches. 

He presses his thumb and forefinger to Keith’s chin before leaning in and down. “You're smarter than that, Cadet,” he whispers against his mouth before pressing their lips together. 

Keith’s hands fly over his body, pressing in hard to the bare skin at his shoulders, moving down the curves of his spine and over his ass, all while kissing Shiro like he’ll never get another chance. 

Shiro doesn't even try to slow him down, needs everything and needs it now. 

“Keith,” he gasps, walking them back to the door and pressing Keith up against it while leaving a string of open-mouthed kisses down the column of his throat. 

Keith's hands scramble at his shoulders and his legs wrap around Shiro’s waist. Shiro holds him there, rocking against him, sucking a bruise low on his collarbone that his uniform will easily cover but he’ll still feel the sting through the fabric. He fingers knead at Keith’s ass, the backs of his thighs, stuttering out a moan. 

“Fuck me,” Keith whispers against the shell of his ear. “Need you to fuck me, to spend the next six weeks doing it.”

Shiro’s dick throbs in his pants and his eyes go hazy with want. He pulls back, tries to regain some control. 

Keith mouth is bitten red, eyes determined. 

“You're sure?” Shiro asks because he has to, because this can't just be a ‘do it because you're leaving soon’ kind of thing.

Keith nods, swallowing. “Was gonna ask you tonight anyway. It's been a month, I figured you were being a gentleman.”

Shiro laughter is breathless. “Yeah, you know me.” He presses a smiling kiss to the corner of Keith's mouth, to his jaw. 

“Do you want to?” Keith asks quietly in the space between them. 

“You have no idea,” whispers Shiro, any remaining self-discipline ebbing away. 

They do it on Shiro’s tiny bed, with his jerk-off lotion, Keith on his hands and knees and only the dim light from the stars as their map. Shiro’s hands fit into the bony dips at Keith’s hipbones, holding him close as he presses in slowly, listening to the rough stateco of sound falling from Keith’s lips.

When he can't get any deeper, he presses his open mouth to Keith’s spine and relearns to breathe. Shiro brackets his body, covering Keith’s smaller frame, his arms and hands feeling huge around and on him, like maybe Keith really is something that could break. 

“Won’t,” he mouths into the curve of his spine. 

“Hmm?” asks Keith, breathless. He reaches back, pulling at Shiro’s hip, pushing back. “C’mon, Shiro, please.”

It’s the ‘please’ that does him in, unexpected and needy. “Yes,” he breathes out or before breathing him in, lips wet on Keith’s skin. He starts to move, fingertips pressing bruises into Keith’s hips, pushing him forward and then back again. 

“Oh, oh,” Keith stutters out, the arch of his back a thing of beauty. His neck tilts back, finding Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro curves over him even further, mouth hot on the base of his throat. 

“Keith. Fuck you feel good, baby.” His cheeks burn at his own words, whispered into sweat-slick skin. 

”Oh, god. Don’t stop,” Keith gasps, and Shiro doesn’t know if he’s referring to his talking or the hard thrust of hips, but stop doing either. Gives himself over to this, unable to stop now even if he wanted to. 

One hand finds Keith’s erection while the other covers the back of his palm on the mattress, fitting his fingers in between Keith’s and flexing them. 

“Let go,” Shiro says, voice low as he strokes him harder, faster, his hips matching the pace of his hand “Keith. C’mon, come, baby.” 

Keith does a minute later, shaking, face pressed into the pillow, gasping for breath. Shiro stays with him through it, holds out until Keith’s got nothing left and then lets go himself, collapsing on top of him, his weight holding Keith into the mattress as his hips jerk, Keith’s name on his lips. 

“Shit,” Keith exhales, unsteady. “Jesus christ.” 

Shiro smiles just as shakily and breathes hard into Keith’s hair. He shifts them so they’re lying on their sides, the action causing him to slide halfway out of Keith before he pushes back in, making Keith moan softly, not ready to leave just yet. 

Shiro listens to Keith’s breathing even out, catalogs every hitch. He presses lazy kisses into his neck, his temple, the slope of his shoulder. 

“Better than nothing,” Keith says, when Shiro thinks he’s already fallen asleep. 

“Hmm?” 

“Six weeks.” 

Shiro’s throat is tight as he tilts Keith’s face to his, kissing him slow and deep. “Yeah. Yeah.”

Keith sneaks back to his own room just before sunrise. It’s the first time he’s stayed out past curfew. 

Shiro was the one to ask him to.  
_____________________________

 **LATER** , Shiro will put his hand through glass and think of a time Keith threatened to do the same. He’ll feel himself coming apart at the seams and not be able to recall a time when voices weren’t in his head and he had it all together. He’ll associate purple with the Galra, with an arm that’s not his; a weapon that suddenly glows the color when he uses it in combat. He’ll look at Keith. He’ll think of Keith’s eyes and they’ll take on a whole new connotation. He’ll think about Lance’s words when he easily, carelessly said, “And then Keith got the doors open just with his hand, man,” to Hunk, oblivious to the sprawling fear he triggered with their utterance. He’ll feel the reality of their circumstances down to his bones and ache for it not to be true. He’ll wonder how to deal with that, when they’ll have to. 

He’ll think about refusing to let Keith break, even though he’s breaking himself. He’ll think about how Keith already did, fifteen months without Shiro and the inability to stay in the program they’d worked so hard for together, because he couldn’t accept that Shiro wasn’t coming back, lost and searching for something alone in the desert. He’ll think perhaps it's his turn, now, to see what it’s like to come apart at the seams and wonder how you’ll put yourself together again. 

He’ll promise himself that they’ll make it, no matter what. That they’ll fight for this as hard as they’ve been fighting Zarkon and striving to work together as a team. That there’s a reason he and Keith found each other and it wasn’t just for Shiro to make some hot-headed teenager fall in line. 

**NOW** , he spends the remainder of his weeks preparing to leave and preparing to say goodbye and realizing those two things are not mutually exclusive. He kisses Keith in corridors and abandoned storage closets and watches him in combat sims in which he’s level headed, focused, and centered. He celebrates in the form of fucking Keith on top of his desk after he’s officially selected for the Fighter Pilot program as a result of Shiro’s added instruction. 

He holds him while in bed together the night before Shiro’s set to depart, whispering into Keith’s skin that he won’t ask him to wait. 

“You’re smarter than that, Officer,” is Keith’s reply, before he crushes their mouths together.  
________________________

They say goodbye in private the next morning. Shiro presses a black flash drive into the palm of Keith’s hand. “Made you a mix,” he says. “Made myself the same one. Figure we could, you know, listen together even if we don’t know that we’re – doing that. Gets kind of quiet in space.” 

Shiro’s well aware he’s rambling, that he’s not even meeting Keith’s eyes. He supposes this is what love feels like, like you’re free falling and trying grasp onto purchase at all costs. 

“I wouldn’t know,” Keith says, voice as soft as his eyes as he his fingers close around the plastic. 

“You will soon,” Shiro promises. “We’ll be up there together someday.” 

Keith’s arms are around him in an instant and Shiro lets out a small, surprised noise. He tightens his arms around Keith’s back, loving the way he can encase him, the way it feels like he was made to fit right here. 

“This is gonna be weird without you,” Keith whispers. 

Shiro’s heart breaks over how five months ago Keith wouldn’t have expected to be anything but alone.

He kisses him, putting words into the kiss that he can’t verbalize. 

Then it’s Keith’s turn to press something into his hand, not meeting Shiro’s eyes. Shiro unfolds the paper to reveal the drawing he’d found six weeks to the day prior. 

“Not a mix, but, whatever,” mumbles Keith, gaze still on the wall next to the door. He sounds as uncomfortable as he looks and it warms Shiro’s heart to see Keith trying to be this open, pushing his own limits of intimacy. 

(In a few hours, Shiro will pin the drawing up next to the flight controls. 

“Got yourself a sweetheart, Takashi?” Commander Holt will ask, voice warm, while Matt smirks, tossing him that same knowing look from months earlier. 

“Yeah, you know, I really do,” he’ll answer, thumbing along the right corner of the page where there’s the barest outline of a small heart.)

He tips Keith’s face upward, taking his mouth again in a deep, all-consuming kiss and trying his best to memorize the feel of Keith’s lips, the press of his tongue, the soft, hot skin at the small of his back. 

“I’ll see you soon,” Shiro whispers as they part, hand reaching blindly for the doorknob. 

Keith takes a step back and finally meets Shiro’s eyes. He folds his arms across his chest, his stance a complete contradiction to the cracked open expression on his face and the faintest tremble of his bottom lip. 

Keith still manages to raise an eyebrow when he says, “Don’t be late.” 

[end]

**Author's Note:**

> Before this fic happened, I made [this mix](http://8tracks.com/sometimesalways/we-re-on-the-road-to-messy). The story is loosely inspired by it, but doesn't follow it to a T. Not to be confused with the mix that Shiro makes for Keith, which you are free to envision anyway you please. I was also heavily inspired by [this](http://roxy12333.deviantart.com/art/Searchlight-617338739) gorgeous, heartbreaking artwork. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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